


Memoirs of Oblivion

by QueenOfSmokeAndMirrors



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death Eater Draco Malfoy, Evil Draco Malfoy, F/M, Hermione Granger is a Good Friend, Lies, Manipulative Draco Malfoy, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 11:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20488442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfSmokeAndMirrors/pseuds/QueenOfSmokeAndMirrors
Summary: Draco Malfoy, about to stand trial for all the crimes he's committed during the war, realises he has an ace up his sleeve when he discovers a Memory-charmed Hermione Granger living as a Muggle.





	Memoirs of Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FFN in 2016 for HP Mental Health Fest! The prompt was Obliviation.

“We’ve found her,” Narcissa Malfoy says in between sips of her tea.

Draco looks up. He has, Narcissa notes with distaste, knocked back half of his brandy in one gulp. “Found who?”

“Found _whom_. And the answer is Hermione Granger.”

Draco has just filled his mouth; at his mother’s answer, brandy sprays out of it in shock.

“_What_?”

“Hermione. Granger,” Narcissa enunciates. “Would-be war heroine, member of the Golden Trio, Mudblood? I assume you do remember her?”

Draco scowls. “Of course I bloody well remember her, Mother, it’s hard to forget someone that annoying. What do you mean, you found her? How can you have found her? She’s been missing for years!”

“Watch your language, son. And I have my ways,” Narcissa says carelessly.

“But even Potter hasn’t found her, and he’s had the entire Auror Department at his disposal!”

“That’s probably because they’ve been confining their searches to the wizarding world.”

Draco stiffens. “You mean…”

“She’s currently inhabiting an apartment in Muggle London,” Narcissa confirms. “93 Fraser Place, Trafalgar Square. I expect Potter would be _very_ glad to hear about the discovery of his little friend after all these years. He might even be glad enough to, say, show his gratitude to the one who discovers her.”

Draco stares into the fire of his mother’s sitting room. He knows what she’s saying. After the war, now that Harry Potter’s finally got round to winning it, people are keen to see the Death Eaters receive their comeuppance. Especially a Death Eater like him. He’s killed their spouses, their children, their parents, their siblings; he’s turned torture into an art form; he’s done whatever he had to do to survive, and he doesn’t regret it. Not one bit.

Hence why they’re sending him to Azkaban one month from now.

There’s to be a trial, but any idiot can see that it’ll basically be a formality. Potter loathes him for killing Albus Dumbledore and Ronald Weasley in particular. There’s no way he’s getting off. He doesn’t care enough to try, and Malfoys don’t run.

But. _But_. They’re not above a little evening of the odds.

Draco rises and wraps his cloak around him. “Where is she?”

“I’ve had one of your father’s contacts in the Ministry connect her home to the Floo Network,” Narcissa says, nodding at the fireplace. “For some reason it wasn’t already.”

“So she’s just… living? Alone? Without Potter?” Draco finds this hard to believe. That bloody so-called Golden Trio were thick as thieves, and no way would Granger put her best friend through so much pain. And anyone can see Potter’s in pain – he’s given hoarse pleas to the public for information on her whereabouts, he’s offered vast sums of gold as rewards.

Narcissa shrugs elegantly. “It would seem so. Do hurry up, boy – my contact can’t keep the connection open forever.”

Draco nods, bows to his mother, and steps through into Granger’s home.

* * *

He has his wand out in front of him as soon as he lands – she’s a powerful witch, there’s no denying that, and there’s every chance she’ll hex an intruder coming through her fireplace. But when he arrives at the apartment there’s nobody to meet him.

He steps out of her fireplace into the living room. It’s small, because space is at a premium here in Canary Wharf, but it’s stylish. Though he doubts she was in charge of the décor because the wallpaper is Slytherin-green.

“Granger?” he calls.

Silence. He tries again.

“Granger? Mudblood? It’s Malfoy!”

More silence. She must be out. It’s three in the afternoon, and the sunlight is slanting in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, through which he can see Billingsgate Market. Maybe she’s gone to do her shopping?

He wanders through the rest of the apartment. It’s neat enough. There are no personal effects like photos anywhere, which he finds strange because Malfoy Manor and other wizarding homes are _stuffed _with ancient family heirlooms, but Granger is a Mudblood so maybe she doesn’t want to remind herself of her humble background.

Draco pauses before a closed door. Her bedroom, most likely. To go in, or not to go in? He turns the handle. It’s not that salacious: no bras or knickers lying out anywhere, no kinky sex toys. Not that one would expect Granger to have any.

He hears the scratching of a key at the front door and retreats so that he'll be facing it when it opens. He doesn’t want her to hex him immediately, so his own wand is pointed unthreateningly at the ground. _Unthreateningly_. Hah. There’s a good one.

The door swings open and she is revealed in the frame. He hasn’t seen her in the flesh for three years; she has changed… not very much, actually. Still that wild riotous brown sex-hair. Still those big muddy eyes staring at him in shock. He smiles charmingly.

“Afternoon, Granger.”

“Who the hell are you?”

The smile drops. “I beg your pardon, Mudblood?”

“You heard me,” she snarls. She was carrying a Waitrose bag, which she’s since dropped to the ground, and is rooting through a handbag. “Don’t come any closer. I’m going to phone the police right now, and you are going to –”

Draco blinks. This is not going at all like he expected. “Granger, what the fuck?”

“Ah-ha!” she says triumphantly, coming up with something from her handbag and brandishing it. It isn’t her wand, like he expected. It’s a small black rectangle. She presses something to make it light up and begins tapping.

Draco’s wits return. “_Petrificus Totalus_!”

He himself is shocked when the curse hits her. Where’s her wand? Where’s her duelling skills? Why didn’t she cast a Shield Charm, or something? He’s an excellent wandsman, but before she disappeared she was better. What’s going on?

He approaches her and grasps her frozen arm, dragging her body inside the apartment and shutting the door. Then he takes the black rectangle from her grip.

“Okay, Granger, I’m going to lift the Body-Bind now, and then you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on,” he says. “_Finite_!”

She springs back to life, her jaw dropping as she stares at him. “What did you do to me? What on earth was that? And hey! Give me my phone back!”

A suspicion dawns. “Granger. Do you know who I am?”

“Should I? And how do you know who I am?”

“Right,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Let’s sit down. I promise not to hurt you, you promise not to hurt me, and we’ll get to the bottom of this. Sound good?”

Her mouth purses. “You’ve escaped from Broadmoor, haven’t you?” Her voice has gentled, become pitying. “It’s okay. I’ll sort it out. Just give me my phone back and I’ll call your handler or whoever it is that’s responsible for you.”

“Look, Granger,” he snaps impatiently, “can you just _sit_?”

She always was a stubborn thing, so he’s surprised when she complies. If his suspicion is correct she’s just been beset by a strange man breaking into her apartment. And yet she’s showing no fear. Once a stupid Gryffindor, always a stupid Gryffindor.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” he says, settling down on the sofa opposite hers. “I’m Draco Malfoy. Are you saying you don’t remember me?”

“No. Have we met?”

“We’ve met. So are you saying that you don’t remember anything about the wizarding world?”

“The _what _world?” she says.

Draco grins his mean little grin to himself. “The wizarding world,” he repeats. “Watch.” He takes his wand out and murmurs an incantation. A blue bird blossoms from the tip and swoops around the room.

“How did you do that?” she says, her eyes narrowed.

He does it again, a red bird this time, and she demands to see his wand. He hands it over, smirking as she turns it this way and that to discover the secret.

“Granger, I’m a wizard,” he says. “And I’ve been sent by the Ministry of Magic to tell you that you’re a witch.”

Her face suffuses with colour. “I am?” He thinks she’ll be sceptical, demand more proof, but she starts muttering to herself. “That would explain… so that’s why… but even without that…”

She sits up straight. “You said we’d met before. Where?”

“I tried to tell you about your magical heritage a few months ago, but I don’t believe it properly sunk in,” he lies. “We in the wizarding world have a special name for people like you. You’re called Mudbloods, because your parents weren’t magical.”

“Mudblood,” she repeats thoughtfully. Something about the way her lips frame the letters makes him abruptly hard, and he shifts uncomfortably.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s the word.”

His mind is moving at lightning speed. This is beyond a miracle, a godsend – Hermione Granger with no memories? Obviously someone from his side wiped her memories to get her out of the way, because her brain was posing a problem. Only, that someone was both a fucking genius for managing to get hold of her, and _nice _for not killing her when he had the opportunity. What a conundrum. What a beautiful situation for him to take advantage of.

“I’ve been sent to give you magical lessons,” he says. “By the Ministry, I mean. They don’t like it when there’s one of us set loose and untrained on the world.”

Her eyes are shining. “Magical lessons? You’re going to give me magical lessons? That is so amazing! Wait right there, I’m going to go grab a notebook!”

She rushes off. Draco is amused. Her memories might be gone, but some things don’t change.

Hermione returns with an Oxford Campus notebook and a biro. “You don’t need that right now,” he says. “Let’s start with the basics. You obviously don’t have a wand, so we’ll practice with mine. Now, watch my hand movements… _Wingardium leviosa_!”

A nearby vase floats upwards. Hermione’s eyes are like saucers.

“_Wingardium leviosa, wingardium leviosa_,” she chants to herself. “Let me try now!”

She all but snatches the wand out of his hand and gives it a determined swish. The entire coffee table rises.

“I’m doing magic!” she breathes.

“So you are,” Draco says, watching her. Was she like this in first year? So enthusiastic, so keen on learning, that it practically lights up the veins beneath her skin? Her own pleasure in this simple act is setting off his own. He guides her indulgently through as much as he can remember from all those Standard Books of Spells, which she masters quickly and easily, and then stands up.

“I have to go now,” he says regretfully. To his surprise the regret is genuine – doing this was fun. There isn’t much fun in his life these days.

She looks so disappointed that he adds impulsively, “I’ll be back tomorrow.” He wasn’t planning on it, he was planning on waiting for a week, but as he Apparates from her apartment he realises that he is already planning the next lesson.

* * *

By the fifth lesson they have gotten more comfortable.

There is an attraction, there has been an attraction almost since day one; but it was low-level, ignorable, quelled by reminders of her base blood and questionable company.

It is not so easily quelled now that he is regularly in close contact with her.

Draco is lounging on Hermione’s sofa, watching as she tries to use the Reducto curse on a mug. She is wearing a tight-fitting white blouse and denim skirt. The swell of her breasts is distracting, yes, but he tells his body to wait. He has a plan. It would be easier to stick to the plan if she didn’t telegraph her own attraction to him in a thousand tiny ways, but he will do it, whatever it takes.

The payoff is going to be _awesome_.

“I can’t do it,” she says, scowling, as she flops onto the sofa beside him. It sinks down slightly and her thigh bumps against his.

“Let me show you again,” he says, taking his wand from her. She’s asked after her own wand but he finds that he likes the idea of her using his. It’s strange, but there you go.

He blasts the mug into smithereens with a lazy twirl. Hermione sighs.

“Draco, tell me more about your world,” she says. “Our world. I know the Minister of Magic is called Kingsley Shacklebolt, but what about the rest of it? I want to know everything!”

Cautiously, as if either of them might bolt at any moment, she lays her head against his shoulder. He grins inwardly.

“You always want to know everything,” he says. “Okay, today’s lesson will be a history one. In the wizarding world there is a man called Harry Potter, who is what you’d call a terrorist extremist; he hates Mudbloods like you, and he’s dedicated his life to wiping them out. A few years ago Voldemort set himself up as the resistance, because he thought, er, that Mudbloods were good and that all house-elves should be freed –”

Hermione straightens, taking her head away. “There are house-elves?” she gasps.

“Yeah,” he says, urging her back down to his shoulder and wrapping an arm around her. Her hair is making his dick hard; he can’t stop imagining grabbing fistfuls of it while he fucks her inquisitive little mouth.

“So anyway, Harry Potter and Voldemort had a massive war, and unfortunately Voldemort lost. Now Potter’s rounding up all of Voldemort’s old followers, pretending to the public that _they’re _the ones who hated Mudbloods, and imprisoning them in Azkaban.”

“That sounds awful,” Hermione breathes. “Were you a part of it?”

“I’m a Malfoy. My family name is a pretty big deal, so yeah. My father and I joined Voldemort.”

“Good,” she says. “Seeing as how I’m a Mudblood and people who followed Harry Potter would hate me.”

“Mm,” he says. He starts trailing his fingers through her hair, gently detangling it. He almost can’t believe the audacity of his own lies, but it doesn’t matter anyway – he’s never given a shit about Mudbloods before, and now he’s starting to give a shit about her, but she’s the only Mudblood he’ll ever give a shit about. So there.

“Potter’s putting me on trial in a few weeks,” he says.

“For what?”

“They tortured and killed a bunch of people in the war, and they’re pinning it on me.”

“What? But that’s terrible! That’s a fucking travesty of justice!”

“I know,” he sighs mournfully. “But there’s no way I’ll be getting off. The Wizengamot – that’s the court – they’re corrupt to the core and they all belong to Potter.”

“Let me be there,” she says. “Please.”

He puts one finger under her chin to tip her face up. Her eyes aren’t quite like mud; they’re more glazed caramel. He loves seeing them when she’s excited, when she’s grumpy like she has been sometimes during their lessons, when she’s shocked, even when she was angry the first time he entered her apartment.

“Of course,” he says. Then he kisses her.

She doesn’t taste of anything. Not food, or anything clichéd which would make her saliva delicious. It’s not like that. The joy of kissing her doesn’t come from how she tastes – it comes from knowing that she’s Hermione Granger, and that he’s Draco Malfoy, and that she’s kissing him back with as much enthusiasm as he’s showing. He thanks whichever god gave them a clean slate like this. How could it have happened if someone hadn’t cast that Memory Charm on her?

He starts unbuttoning her blouse and slips one hand inside, feeling the roughness of lace. She’s wearing a lacy red bra that makes her skin – quite a bit more tanned than his, but then nobody’s as pale as a Malfoy – glow.

“Bedroom,” she murmurs, tearing herself away from his mouth to pepper kisses along his jaw. “Please?”

He grunts acknowledgment and lifts her up bridal-style, stumbling when she reaches down to rub playfully at his dick. Then she starts unbuttoning his shirt. He throws her onto her double bed, covering her body with his, and then he knows nothing but Hermione Granger for a long, long time.

* * *

He wakes up alone.

At first, with his eyes shut, he reaches towards where she should be and gropes around; when he finds nothing there he vaults out of bed. Where is she? Is she regretting this? How could she regret this? She doesn’t have any memories! Did the sex break the Memory Charm?

It’s more likely the sex broke him, he realises as he hears the faint hum of her singing in the shower. Gods. He’s such an idiot.

He gets back into bed. She’s told him that, even though it’s a double bed, for some reason she _always _sleeps on the right, which means that he automatically gets the left. Figures. It’s the less comfortable side – her mattress is a lot thinner than what he’s accustomed to, and there’s something digging into his back. He makes a mental note to get her another mattress. Although she won’t need it when she comes to live at his own apartment with him.

His half really is uncomfortable. He rolls onto her side to see if that’s any better, and immediately notices the absence of whatever it was that was digging into his back. Curious. From the sounds of her, she’ll be in the shower for a while, so he can do a spot of investigation without looking like a moron.

Draco gets out of bed and dons his boxers, then levers up her mattress with a grunt. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it certainly isn’t what he finds: a long, slender piece of wood. He extracts it.

It must be her wand. What else would it be?

He turns it over in his hands. Touching it makes him feel a little strange, maybe because he’s gotten so used to her using his own wand that he’d forgotten she once had one of her own.

“_Priori Incantatem_!”

A jet of silver air gusts out of the tip, coalescing into a globe, and Draco inhales sharply. That’s the Memory Charm. The motherfucker Obliviated her with her own wand?

He’s grateful to whoever it was that did this, but using her own wand on her is just evil. Draco would know. He decides he’s going to kill him.

* * *

The day of his trial dawns bright and cold.

“It’ll be alright,” Hermione mutters as they descend in the lift to the courtroom. “It’ll be fine. It’ll be alright.”

“I know,” he says soothingly. She’s really saying it more for herself than him. He can tell by her fingernails, which he’s certain have left marks in his arm from how hard she’s gripping it. Nobody recognised her as they walked through the Ministry, because it’s been years and she’s wearing a hat, but he can tell she’s overwhelmed and trying furiously not to be intimidated.

Plus she’s worried for him. He wishes he could tell her not to be. But he can’t, yet.

The lift doors open and they step through. There are no Dementors any longer, it’s one of the first things Potter got rid of, so instead there’s a pair of Hit Wizards standing to attention at the doors to the courtroom. One of them is Parvati Patil.

“Hey,” she says, as he and Hermione sweep past. “What – is that –”

Draco ignores her, and Hermione is too tense to notice. They walk in together. The Wizengamot has already gathered, because they are just barely late; Harry Potter is sitting in the front row, in pride of place, next to Kingsley Shacklebolt. Draco’s trial is big enough for the Minister to come down and be involved.

The low hum of voices stops. “Go, sit over there,” Draco murmurs, pushing Hermione in the direction of the spectator stands. They’re currently empty – spectators were banned for his trial. She rises on tiptoe to press a brief, bruising kiss to his lips and hurries off.

Slowly, as though he has all the time in the world, he proceeds to the chair and sits down. The chains snake out to bind him to it with indecent eagerness.

Potter is staring at Hermione, a strange look on his face. Nobody else seems to have noticed.

Shacklebolt raps the table in front of him. “The trial of Draco Lucius Malfoy has begun at 09:04 a.m., on Tuesday the –”

Harry Potter stands up abruptly. “Kingsley,” he says. “Kingsley.” His face is white.

The Minister looks at him in concern. “Harry, what?”

But Potter is not listening; he has leapt over the dividing table and is making his way to where Hermione is sitting all by her lonesome, staring as he strides closer to her. Draco smirks. The chains retract and he is able to stand and stretch pointedly as Potter snatches the hat off Hermione’s head and stares into her face.

Then he turns around and bellows, “Everybody leave!”

Stunned silence. “What?” Shacklebolt says.

“I said, _leave_!” Potter yells. His voice bounces around the room. “I need to talk to Malfoy and… _her_ now! Alone. So leave.”

Draco, knowing the sort of staidly traditional individuals who constitute the Wizengamot, is amused when they shuffle out of the door in a wave of offended dignity. This is the Boy-Who-Lived, after all. They can hardly deny him. The last wizard closes it behind him with a bang.

“Hermione,” Potter says. “Hermione, is it you? Did you change your mind?”

She frowns and looks at Draco, who is standing menacingly at his shoulder. “Draco?” she says instead. “Who’s this?”

“_This _is Harry Potter,” he says, and watches her eyes widen as she jerks away. “What do you mean, has she changed her mind?”

“Her mind!” Potter snarls. He backs away and begins to pace agitatedly. “Hermione, what the fuck are you doing with Malfoy? He killed Ron! He’s the reason you Obliviated yourself!”

“Ron?” she says blankly. Draco latches onto something else.

“She Obliviated herself?”

He nods curtly. “The war, the deaths, it was taking a toll on her. She woke up every night screaming. Your fucking aunt Cruciated her and she dreamed it _every fucking night_. Ron was the last straw. She Obliviated herself and asked me to arrange it so that she simply disappeared.”

“So those rewards to the public, begging for information… those were all fake,” Draco says in understanding. “More clever than I’d have expected from you, Potter. You had us fooled.”

“What have you done to her?” Potter snaps. “Hermione! Malfoy hates Muggleborns like you! He calls you a Mudblood, you’re worthless to him, he doesn’t give a damn about you!”

“On the contrary, Potter, I plan to marry her,” Malfoy drawls.

Hermione turns to him. “You do?”

“I do,” he says, smiling slightly at the expression on her face.

“This is too fucking much,” Potter says. “Hermione, he’s brainwashed you, and there’s only one way for me to fix it. _Sectumsepra_!”

Hermione shrieks in pain, and Draco can hear the blood roaring in his ears as he sees gashes appear across her arms. His wand was taken from him so he does the next best thing – he lunges at Potter and the two of them fall to the floor in a tangle of punching limbs.

Her voice snaps them out of it. “Harry?”

“Hermione!” he says, dragging himself away from Draco and staggering up to her. “Are you yourself again?”

“I think so,” she says faintly. “My arms…”

“We’ll get you taken to see a Healer right away,” Potter assures her. “I’m sorry about that, but pain’s the only way to break a Memory Charm, and I needed to make you see what was happening.”

Hermione looks at Draco. Her brown eyes are nearly as cold as his, lips drawn back from her teeth. “I cannot believe you did that to me,” she says. “I can’t believe I had sex with you, I can’t believe I touched you, I can’t believe you actually persuaded me of all that rubbish about Harry, and –”

Draco lifts the wand he palmed from Potter during the fight. “_Obliviate_.”

She slumps sideways. Potter lets out a roar and charges at him; Draco sidesteps lazily and does the charm again, smirking victoriously as Potter collapses like a marionette with its strings cut.

God, he does love it when his plans come to fruition.

* * *

“I think Rose wants some chocolate milk,” Hermione tells her husband.

He massages her swollen stomach. “She does, does she? Somehow I don’t think she’s old enough to know what chocolate milk is.”

“Please?” she pouts.

Sighing exaggeratedly, he gets out of bed and puts his boxers on. “Be right back,” he promises his wife. She gives him a kiss with liberal amounts of tongue and pats his bum as he leaves.

Draco finds three-year-old Scorpius in the kitchen, zooming around on his toy broomstick as a house-elf watches him carefully. “Daddy!” the boy cries. “Daddy!”

His father scoops him up and cradles him in one arm. “Your mistress wants some chocolate milk,” he tells another house-elf. It bows and scurries to do his bidding.

Leaving Scorpius to play with his broomstick while his parents engage in more adult games, Draco returns to the bedroom with the milk. Hermione is sitting up in bed talking to her stomach.

“ – and the wrist movement for that is a tiny bit different, it’s more flicky, but if you’ve mastered Aguamenti then –”

“Hermione, stop confusing her,” he says as he hands her the mug and slides back under the covers. She rolls her eyes.

“She’s not confused. I just want her to be well-prepared for life. And by telling her all these things now, I can be sure that she’ll remember them.”

“If you say so,” he says. “But memory's not that fickle a thing. I have a feeling she’ll remember them just fine.”


End file.
